


Carried on Pacific Winds

by Ultirex



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cross-Faction Romance, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Minor references to sticky, The Matrix is also there, falling in love with the enemy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ultirex/pseuds/Ultirex
Summary: It was only by the Matrix’s good graces that Hot Rod managed to survive his fatal encounter with Megatron. Now stranded on a remote planet and captured by a Decepticon who doesn’t believe in dead gods, he’ll have to rely on nothing more than his charm and what remains of Deadlock’s compassion to make it back home.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Hot Rod
Comments: 20
Kudos: 111





	Carried on Pacific Winds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Respirdal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Respirdal/gifts).



> Commission for Res! 
> 
> Takes place after issue 13 of the 2009 comic/diverges from where it picks up in issue 19.

In those brief moments where Hot Rod finds himself capable of thought, he recognizes that he’s floating. 

The weightlessness is jarring during those grace notes of time where he can bring himself to feel fear. He had once envied Seekers for their conquest of the skies, and their ability to do so with a finesse that could never be replicated on the confines of the surface. Now, he finds flight - or at the very least, something akin to it - to be dreadfully lonely. The vacuum of space offers no solace in sound or the promise of a home to return to. 

His consciousness ebbs and flows like the Pious Pools he never had the chance to see. What little processor power he still has fixates on the intense burn that emanates from his chest. It seems to have infected more of his frame with each passing interval of awareness; some sort of insidious virus or parasite that’s taken root in his core with the singular purpose of leaving necrosis where once there was life. 

He’d bet his life on this mission, he remembers. And as is typical of Hot Rod, it’s only on the cusp of death that he considers the possibility that he’s made a mistake. 

Of all the things to mourn, he uses his final thread of conscious thought to lament the fact that he never knew love. 

**______________________________**

The rain finally lets up.

Were Deadlock a spiritual man, he would see it as a benevolent act from a sympathetic god, or perhaps a good omen of what’s to come. But what little thought he’d once spared for piety had died in the bloodied streets of the Dead End, and as he steps out of his ship he proceeds with a single minded determination rather than stopping to count his blessings.

His supply of fuel and his opportunities are wearing thin. What he managed to scavenge from Gearshift’s carcass isn’t sufficient for the repairs he needs. The acid rain is as hostile as the indigenous life on the planet, and this may be his last chance to gamble on finding resources - or perhaps an unfortunate soul with a functioning ship and an inability to hold their own in a fight. 

The latter would be ideal, but Deadlock never has been much of an optimist. He loads up on his weapons and ventures away from the crash site, gritting his teeth at the way the soil burns his feet. Days of rain have left it sodden, and he has no doubt that if he doesn’t tread quickly it’ll start to corrode his armor. 

He gets a running start to transform into vehicle mode, but stops short when a glint of something in the sky catches his attention. The sting of the earth is secondary to the sense of wonder at what appears to be a falling star, set ablaze as it plummets through the atmosphere. Deadlock watches as it disappears behind the peak of a nearby mountain, leaving a trail of smoke and cinder scorched across the horizon that terminates in the direction of an organic settlement. 

“Shit…”

He doesn’t waste time worrying about the finer details of what exactly it could be, or what he’ll do if he suddenly finds himself outnumbered by those brutish aliens that were surely eager for retribution after their last encounter. Deadlock transforms and takes off, pushing his already over-taxed systems to their limits with nothing but the vague hope that fortune has chosen to favor him. 

**______________________________**

Hot Rod feels like he’s burning alive. 

It’s not the same sensation as when he lights up, which provides a momentary high and rush of adrenaline before his body starts to buckle beneath the force of exertion. This agony is searing and consistent, always most potent in his chest but leaving no inch of his frame unsullied. 

War had taught him that there are worse things to fear than death. He feels vindicated for a moment before the horrifying reality that he’s likely trapped in some sort of torturous limbo between life and death sets in. 

For the first time he wishes he’d been more religious in life. At least then the honeyed promises of Primus welcoming him home to the gilded gates of the Afterspark could provide a small comfort, but he’d never really been one to offer up prayers or words of adulation. 

And yet he swears he can almost hear the soothing whispers of the god that had long ago abandoned them, wrapping him in reassurances that his time has yet to come, that divine providence has ordained something far more grand for him than a lonely death in the wastelands of a foreign world. 

He’s desperate enough to believe them, and perhaps that little bit of faith is all he needs to be entrusted with the gift of resurrection. 

Hot Rod arches off the ground as a surge of electricity reanimates limbs that had grown heavy and cold. Air rushes into his vents and he’s left heaving on the ground as his deprived systems struggle to adjust to not only a second wind at life, but the unfamiliar environment. 

He barely registers that he has an audience before one of the organic creatures crouching next to him suddenly drops dead. The second one is just as slow to react, only managing to get a hand on the weapon holstered at its hip before it meets the same end, pierced cleanly through the skull by an unknown assailant. 

The organics crumple in a heap next to him. He could almost admire how clean the marksman’s work is, but coming back to life has a habit of bolstering someone’s sense of self-preservation. 

“Sorry about this,” Hot Rod murmurs in a quick apology before situating the dead organics into something of a shield. They’re large, even by Cybertronian standards, and Hot Rod can hope that they’ll at least protect his vital components from the scope of the sniper. 

Running would be the smart thing to do, he knows, yet the various warnings cluttering his HUD make the thought of rearranging his internals sound less appealing. 

Perhaps the same stroke of luck that brought him back from the brink will grace him once more, and the assassin will either drop the hunt or assume he’s already dead - which would be a chillingly accurate assessment of the situation. 

It seems needlessly cruel, after all, that such a gift would be taken from him so soon, and Hot Rod has prided himself on never giving in to the defeatist attitude of pessimism. 

He can do nothing but still his vents and listen as footsteps grow increasingly louder. The rough terrain crunches underfoot, and each sound is like the percussion of a war drum. 

His assailant must have a penchant for drama. There’s a moment of quiet during which Hot Rod almost convinces himself that he’ll get away with it, that the gruesome sight of the two corpses draped across his frame will deter any interest in scavenging or securing the kill; stupidly optimistic, maybe, but that same stupid brand of optimism has kept him alive until this point. 

Yet it turns out to be nothing more than a dramatic pause. The dead organics are lifted and their bodies unceremoniously tossed aside, leaving Hot Rod completely exposed to the elements and the barrel of a gun.

He tilts his head back, hoping to at the very least know the identity of his killer. There’s a vague recollection, breadcrumbs of scenes from battle and rumors whispered in the dark of the Autobot barracks before battles, but it’s the first time he’s ever found himself face to face with Deadlock.

“It’s you,” Hot Rod says, and from the way Deadlocks’ optics widen he wasn’t expecting any familiarity so far removed from Cybertron and the influence of the war. But their gazes only lock briefly before Deadlock’s optics migrate downwards, and his posture suddenly goes stiff.

“What the hell did you do?” he asks, and Hot Rod naively assumes he’s referring to the gaping hole in his chest. 

**______________________________**

Deadlock never expected to find god beneath a pile of corpses. 

Yet lo and behold, the Matrix stares back at him with the exact same shade of crystalline blue as its bearer’s optics. 

The Autobot, one whose designation is frustratingly elusive - even as images of the young renegade in battle provide an untimely distraction - doesn’t seem to register Deadlock’s question. He blinks almost innocently, and there’s a boyish sort of charm to it that’s nearly impossible to come across in a species so thoroughly ravaged by war. 

“You’re him,” the Autobot says. His voice sounds strained, laced with the static that’s characteristic of a damaged vocalizer. 

Given the artifact that has taken residence in his chest, and the scarred bits of protoflesh that form a ring of decay around it, Deadlock figures that a slight speech impairment is the least of his worries. 

Deadlock is too preoccupied by the sight of the Matrix to have his ego stroked at the recognition. He crouches down, keeping one hand poised and ready to pull the trigger should his captive start feeling brave - or stupid, which seems far more likely - while the other falls victim to the almost gravitational pull of the Matrix.

The Autobot’s gaze is wary as it tracks Deadlock’s hand, looking past the immediate threat of the gun hovering only inches from his nose. 

“W-wait,” he rasps, as if he’d be able to play on Deadlock’s sympathies. 

His attempts at pleading are short lived, and at first Deadlock assumes it’s because he’s finally come to his senses and realized that Deadlock’s infamy doesn’t come from his charity. 

Deadlock wraps his free hand around one of the handles on the Matrix and gives it a firm tug. The relic barely budges, and it’s only after another, more insistent attempt at removing it, an attempt that is accompanied by a yelp of protest from the Autobot bonded to it, that Deadlock sees odd tendrils of light extending from the Matrix. They look as if they’re integrated into the meshwork of their host’s protoform, not unlike a hostile organism that has hijacked an unsuspecting victim’s body. 

It’s a repulsive sight, but one that Deadlock can’t pry his eyes away from. The intricate lattice of light that weaves through the Autobot’s protoflesh pulses to the same beat as the Matrix, giving it the illusion of life. 

“What did you do?” Deadlock repeats as he watches, transfixed by the strange allure of this focal point between the living and the gods of old. 

The Autobot stares as well, but when he speaks he does so without that same sense of awe. 

“Something incredibly stupid.”

**______________________________**

He only has a weak recollection of what immediately followed that first encounter. 

Hot Rod can’t say if it was the Matrix coaxing him into a forced shutdown or the pain and shock of it all doing the same. All he knows is that when he comes to once more he’s no longer in the wasteland, and in these unfamiliar surroundings the ache in his chest, one that has mercifully grown duller with time, has become something of an old friend. 

“Thought you’d died,” comes a gruff voice from somewhere in the room, one that unmistakably belongs to the same Decepticon that had found him.

Hot Rod blinks. His optics take a moment to adjust to the harsh artificial lighting overhead. “Sorry to disappoint,” he says, and the Decepticon laughs dryly.

“Almost doubt you could at this point,” the Decepticon - Deadlock, that was his name - says. He steps into view and begins to circle around Hot Rod with an almost predatory grace. 

He speaks in a lazy drawl, but his movements have a sharpness and precision to them that bodes poorly for anyone dumb enough to underestimate him. 

“The Matrix seems to have taken a liking to you. Should I call you Prime?” Deadlock says snidely.

Hot Rod’s body feels heavy as he lies on the floor of what he presumes to be a ship, but he still manages a shrug and a cheeky smile that he figures has a fifty-fifty chance of getting him killed or charming his captor. 

“Considering who had it before me, I can’t exactly blame it,” Hot Rod says. He remembers how it had dangled from Starscream’s neck like nothing more than a useless ornament or a vanity piece. 

“Starscream,” Deadlock says, and his lip curls with poorly-concealed disgust at the name. “I’m not surprised that he had a literal god on his side and still managed to fuck things up.”

It doesn’t come as a surprise that there’s resentment towards Starscream among the Decepticon ranks. Considering how easily his base of operations was stormed by one scrappy cadet, Hot Rod can’t imagine his leadership has been met with much zeal.

“You’ve got a lot of faith in this thing, huh,” Hot Rod muses as he tentatively brushes a finger along the corona of the Matrix. He supposes he has no room to judge, considering that it’s likely the only reason he’s survived long enough to have this conversation.

Getting philosophical with a ‘Con. Imagine the scandal. 

“No,” Deadlock says simply. He pauses just beside Hot Rod’s head. Hot Rod knows better than to say that he looks significantly less frightening upside down. “But other people do. Carry the Matrix and its worshippers will follow.”

It’s a sound point, Hot Rod will admit. Surely the reason why the Decepticons had stuck with Starscream thus far. 

“So I take it you’re not a fan,” Hot Rod says. “Where does that leave us, then?”

Deadlock crouches down, bringing himself close enough that Hot Rod can smell his gunmetal musk. 

His fuel pump stalls, and he wonders why it’s taken until this point for him to feel fear. 

“I need the Matrix,” Deadlock says with a flash of teeth that look as if they could rip out Hot Rod’s jugular. He reaches down, plucking at one of the roots that the Matrix has embedded in Hot Rod’s chest. “And seeing as you’ve managed to get yourself stuck to it, I can’t risk killing you just yet.”

Deadlock stands. The scent of his breath lingers in Hot Rod’s olfactory.

“After that?” He shrugs. His words are far less ambiguous than they would suggest. “Who knows.”

**______________________________**

The cuffs around Hot Rod’s wrists and ankles are uncomfortable, but only an afterthought considering everything else he finds himself confronted with.

He takes a cursory glance at his surroundings after he manages to work his way (inelegantly) into a seated position. What he had presumed to be some sort of Decepticon warship actually appears to be nothing more than a shuttle. There’s a row of seats on either side of him as well as overhead cabinets that are likely stocked with weapons; ones he’d rather not get acquainted with, given what he’s gleaned about Deadlock from horror stories in the barracks. 

His back is facing what must be the cockpit. He can hear a series of swear words followed by the clang of metal that sounds suspiciously like a tool being thrown against a console. 

A moment of quiet follows. He considers pretending to be asleep until he can formulate a plan of escape, but such hopes are quickly dashed when he feels a hand flirt with his spoiler.

“Uh.” Hot Rod swallows. He’s heard stories about Deadlock ripping a spark clean out of someone’s chest with his claws alone (and then proceeding to eat said spark, depending on who you ask, but Hot Rod has yet to determine if he believes that little embellishment). “I, uh, I take it we’re stuck here.”

“Brilliant observation,” Deadlock deadpans. His hand lingers on Hot Rod’s spoiler for a moment. It sends a shiver down Hot Rod’s spinal strut, and he can’t parse how much is from fear and from the pleasant sensation of having those sensors stimulated. “You’re lucky, Autobot. The wardens back at base aren’t known for treating our prisoners kindly.”

“And you are?” Hot Rod ventures with a healthy dose of skepticism.

Deadlock scoffs. It’s enough for Hot Rod to know that he shouldn’t push his luck, but then again he has a habit of spitting in the face of common sense when it suits him.

“I’ve seen you before,” Deadlock says quietly.

Hot Rod cranes his neck to try and get a glimpse of Deadlock’s expression. “Should I be flattered that you remember me?”

Deadlock lets out a dry laugh. “You’re difficult to miss. With a paint job like that you must be desperate for attention.”

“You got me,” Hot Rod says. If his hands were free he’d hold them up in mock surrender. “It’s all ‘cause of my deep rooted issues of self-worth that come from not having a good relationship with the father figure in my life.”

There’s an awkward beat of silence, followed by a “What.”

“That was a joke,” Hot Rod says sheepishly. “‘Cons never tell those? Never have a little fun? Must be why you’re all so uptight all the time. No jokes and a stick waaay up your-“

The hand on Hot Rod’s spoiler tightens its grip - not enough to hurt, but the pinprick feeling of Deadlock’s claws threatening to bite into the metal is a sufficient warning. Hot Rod doesn’t finish that thought as Deadlock circles around and crouches down in front of him, bringing them eye-level.

“You’re obnoxiously calm, considering where you are,” Deadlock observes. His optics are intimidating from their unsettling color alone, more so when they’re narrowed as they are in a calculating stare. “Are all Autobots this stupid?”

“It’s Hot Rod,” Hot Rod says.

The paranoid part of him that’s been drilled into his head by years of conflict protests against revealing such information to the enemy. He’s heard his fair share of cautionary tales that warn against giving away any sort of information or the leverage it provides, most of which have ended in tragedy. 

But there’s something unsettling about the way that Deadlock speaks of his allegiance, and he figures he’s already dug himself about as deep as he can go at this point. 

“Hot Rod,” Deadlock echoes. He speaks as if it’s slightly more palatable than Hot Rod’s faction, but still with an air of derision as he says, “Of course it is.”

“And my brand of stupidity is all my own, thank you,” Hot Rod says. Which, granted, it certainly is. 

He can picture now how the crew on Earth would be clutching their pearls at how his little suicide mission has culminated in him exchanging pleasantries with a Decepticon. Maybe it’s a good thing his chances of survival are next to none at this point. Optimus Prime’s disappointment has a way of hitting differently, as does-

“Ratchet,” Hot Rod murmurs.

Deadlock stiffens. “What about him?”

“So you do still remember him,” Hot Rod says, and he can swear there’s something softer about Deadlock’s gaze, a memory of those days before rifts were drawn between some of the only meaningful relationships some had known. “He told me about you once, y’know. A couple times, actually.”

He gets the feeling he’s treading on thin ice by daring to breach such a topic. If Deadlock is truly as mercurial and prone to fits of violence as the word of his fellow Autobots will have him believe, then the protection of the Matrix might only get him so far. 

And yet he presses on, because this may very well be the only opportunity he has to get Deadlock’s guard down. It’s about the extent of his plan, but he figures it’s better than nothing, and he’s never been one to shy away from a little improvisation. 

“He still talks about you sometimes,” Hot Rod continues. “Even slips up sometimes and calls you by your name - your _real_ one.”

“Don’t,” Deadlock says, his voice dropping to a low growl that has Hot Rod’s fuel running cold. 

Hot Rod steels himself. “Obviously you’re not who you used to be. But, you know what? I think he still has a little faith in you. And knowing that, well. I guess I just can’t entirely buy everything they say about you. Call it stupidity if you want. I’m just trying not to let this war make me as cynical as it wants to.”

As much as his past mistakes have tried to. The names of his squad members have become something of a mantra, one that always ends with the same one and the words of the Magnificence ringing in his audials like a condemnation. 

He’s half-expecting to be executed on the spot. He eyes the gun that’s holstered right at Deadlock’s hip, but Deadlock has yet to make any move to draw it. 

“That attitude is going to get you killed,” Deadlock says quietly. 

“Maybe,” Hot Rod admits. The survivor’s guilt in him would be appeased, at the very least. “But you could say that about a lot of things. And I think it’s kinda sad to live your whole life doubting everyone around you.”

Deadlock doesn’t answer right away. Hot Rod wonders if maybe his (admittedly rose-tinted, especially in the context of where they’re at as a species) world view has given Deadlock something to think about.

Not too shabby at pep talks if he can get through to an infamously ruthless Decepticon, Hot Rod thinks with a swell of pride. 

It quickly proves to be a preemptive one when Deadlock’s hand is suddenly resting right over Hot Rod’s spark, with only the Matrix serving as a buffer between him and the deadly intent in those claws.

“You can preach about the goodness in others all you want,” Deadlock growls, “but that doesn’t change the fact that I could kill you right now.”

Hot Rod’s spark goes still. His voice catches in his intake, and it’s a moment before he can collect himself enough to say, “But you won’t.”

“What makes you so sure?” Deadlock challenges. He traces around the rim of the Matrix with a claw, and despite the unpleasant sound and the imminent threat posed to the only thing keeping Hot Rod alive, Hot Rod feels a shiver travel from his chest straight down to his core. 

Hot Rod should feel appalled by how arousing it is. It’s not unlike the sensation of playing with the sensitive cradle of his spark itself, and he supposes that’s a good approximation, given that the Matrix has taken root much like his life essence.

Deadlock doesn’t seem to notice the effect that his touch is having, thankfully. He finger continues to move in a lazy circle as he waits for a response that Hot Rod has forgotten he’s expected to give.

“You need this, remember?” Hot Rod tries to ignore the heat pooling between his thighs as Deadlock continues to basically fondle the Matrix. Hot Rod spares a thought for the Primes that are surely rolling in their graves right about now. “Said yourself that killing me would be too risky. Not your best move, letting me know that. Just saying.”

“Hm,” Deadlock grunts. In what is probably an attempt at saving face by appearing threatening, he lets his claw graze the actual core of the Matrix, and Hot Rod shudders as it sends a rush of electricity through his center and to his extremities. “Maybe I am willing to risk it. No guarantee that offing you will actually harm the Matrix.”

Hot Rod has to choke down some static before he can respond. “But it might. And you’re not in a position to risk it, are you? That’s the only reason you’re still talking to me.”

Deadlock relinquishes his hold with a snarl. He’s very easy to read, all things considered, and Hot Rod doesn’t know whether it’s a blessing or a curse that he’s been captured by someone so emotionally-driven. 

At least when Deadlock does decide to kill him he’ll be able to see it coming.

“There’s worse company than me, you know,” Hot Rod says as Deadlock retreats back into the solitude of the cockpit; likely to make another unsuccessful attempt at repairs that will end with him abusing another innocent wrench. “You could be stuck here with Starscream.”

Deadlock doesn’t argue that point. Hot Rod considers it a win that he’s above at least _someone_ in Deadlock’s eyes. 

**______________________________**

The clear skies don’t last for long. 

Deadlock is in the middle of trying (failing) to repair the damaged console when the rain resumes. It starts with a slow drizzle, a steady _plink_ of droplets against the glass of the window, but it isn’t long before it starts to fall with a vengeance.

“Dammit.” Deadlock mutters a curse as the little bit of shelter that he has is suddenly besieged by a torrent of acid rain. 

A quick glance at his fuel gauge does little to mitigate his worries. The time to keep waiting out storms is a luxury he doesn’t have, and the 23% that blinks ominously on the corner of his HUD is a grim reminder. 

The patch job that he did to the windshield in the wake of the crash is barely functional at best, and he knows better than to sit and pray that it will endure whatever hostile weather this planet throws at it next. 

Deadlock glances over at the co-pilot seat where his ill-fated companion on this mission sits. Gearshift is little more than an endoskeleton at this point, having been thoroughly picked apart for materials. 

He’s almost unrecognizable as a Cybertronian at this point, but still has a sufficient remnant of sentience to him that’s unsettling. Deadlock entertains the thought of scaring Hot Rod with it until he realizes just how juvenile that would be.

It’s Hot Rod’s fault, he decides. The cheeky little bastard has gotten under his plating already.

And speak of the devil…

Deadlock follows the sound of his voice out of the cockpit. He finds Hot Rod lying down on one of the benches - a feat in itself, given the way he’s still bound - and humming a tune to himself. It’s nothing that Deadlock recognizes, but he wouldn’t be surprised if boredom has driven Hot Rod to compose something nonsensical.

Hot Rod’s humming peters out when he realizes he has an audience. “If you ask me to sit in complete silence for the entirety of my imprisonment then I have to warn you, I might actually go insane.”

“Love the sound of your voice that much, huh,” Deadlock says. 

He leans against the doorframe as he observes his captive, who still looks entirely too comfortable for Deadlock’s liking. Definitely milking the Matrix’s protection for all its worth. 

Hot Rod crosses his ankle over his knee. His foot bounces restlessly as he talks. 

“Just don’t like the quiet much,” Hot Rod says. “Too much thinking, not enough doing.”

He rubs his nose. Deadlock wonders if he’s ever had a moment of stillness in his life. 

“Sooo…” Hot Rod trails off as he presumably searches for a topic to fill the silence that he loathes so much. “What exactly do you plan to do with the Matrix, anyways? Figure you owe me that such since it’s, y’know.” 

He raps his knuckles against the casing of the Matrix. It’s a hollow sound, for something so blindly revered.

Deadlock considers not divulging such details just to be difficult, but concedes that it’s mundane enough to share. If it gets Hot Rod to shut up for a bit, all the better.

“Once I’ve repaired the navigation system I’ll use it to power the engines,” Deadlock says. “After that I’ll- huh.”

He takes a seat opposite Hot Rod as he mulls over the conundrum that is the Decepticon’s current leadership. The thought of returning the Matrix to Starscream of all people is less than appealing, and were it not for the power that the masses had bestowed upon it then he’d rather toss it into the nearest blackhole or a dying star. See if those so-called gods could withstand that.

Hot Rod is watching him with a dubious look. “What, no grand, dastardly plan?”

Deadlock rolls his eyes. “You really have so little respect for what the Decepticons stand for, don’t you?”

“Personally, I find it easier to think of you guys as a bunch of evil, mustache-twirling villains,” Hot Rod says, and he actually has the audacity to grin. But his amusement is only superficial, and his expression turns somber as he says, “That’s kind of how a lot of Autobots think. Well, not that exactly. More along the lines of ‘all ‘Cons are heartless and savage war criminals who eat newsparks, probably.’ Certainly makes it easier to shoot you guys when you think that way.”

“Because Autobots are the spitting image of morality,” Deadlock says with no shortage of venom, and that finally gets Hot Rod to flinch. “If your ideals were truly worth standing for then you wouldn’t have to dehumanize us to do it.”

Hot Rod doesn’t offer any quips or preach about the inherent superiority of the moral code that the Autobots rally behind. Deadlock can at least appreciate that Hot Rod seems to be sincerely considering what he said, but he knows better than to expect understanding from someone bearing the brand of their oppressors.

Deadlock isn’t expecting a serious conversation about faction ideologies. He starts to make his way back to the cockpit to resume what has thus far been fruitless work on the navigation system, but he hears the clink of metal as Hot Rod wrestles with his cuffs to stand.

“Wait,” Hot Rod says before gracelessly falling off of the bench and face planting on the floor.

He doesn’t get up right away. Deadlock can’t help but laugh at seeing the vessel of the Matrix look so undignified. 

Hot Rod groans before lifting his head. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

Deadlock stays to watch the show of Hot Rod struggling to get back up. The brat is determined, Deadlock will give him that, and it’s only after a bit of fumbling and swearing that Hot Rod is able to meet him eye to eye.

“May I could, uh.” Hot Rod clears his intake. It’s a pretty poor attempt at recovery from that embarrassment, but he seems determined to appear casual and unfazed by it. “Maybe I could help you.”

Deadlock’s laughter is sharp and unpleasant. “You want to help? I’ve taken you hostage and you want to _help?_ You’re insane.”

He keeps going. Hot Rod is persistent and trails along behind him into the cockpit.

“Well, the way I see it, I can sit here and let you throw a tantrum with the console all you want and we die trapped on this planet,” Hot Rod retorts, leaving Deadlock to wonder where all this feistiness came from, “or I can help you get us out of here and take my chances up there.”

Deadlock raises a brow. “And what exactly do you plan on doing? Overpowering me and stealing my ship?”

“Shuttle,” Hot Rod says, probably just to be petty. “And yeah. Either I jack your dinky little shuttle or I win you over with my charming personality and convince you not to turn me over to your ‘Con buddies. Either way? Gives me more options than starving to death. So quit being a jerk and let me help.”

“Be my guest then,” Deadlock says, choosing not to give Hot Rod the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him and stepping aside.

“Uh.” Hot Rod holds up his cuffed hands. 

Deadlock considers his prisoner’s bound feet and hands. Considering the injuries that Hot Rod looks to have sustained, he likely won’t pose any real threat. He puts on a brave face, Deadlock will give him that, but Deadlock can still hear the way his ventilations are labored, see how he winces as he hobbles around pathetically and jostles his damaged internals.

It’s not like Hot Rod would survive if he tried to make a break for it, either. If granted that little bit of freedom, abusing the privilege wouldn’t be in his best interest.

But caution has always been Deadlock’s most dependable ally, so he dismisses the thought. “You can tell me what to do, since you seem so confident in yourself.”

Hot Rod doesn’t back down from the challenge. He looks ridiculous as he hops his way over to the console and leans over to examine the exposed wiring and other delicate components.

It just so happens to give Deadlock a nice view of Hot Rod’s aft. He’s not complaining.

“Hmm.” Hot Rod tilts his head and squints his optics as he examines the machinery. “Um, you could always - huh.”

Deadlock is still staring at Hot Rod’s aft as he offers a snide, “You have no idea what the hell you’re doing, do you?”

“Nope,” Hot Rod admits, completely shameless. “Never fixed one of these in my life. But I _have_ spent a good deal of time around a bunch of nerds an- oooh my god, what did you _do?_ ”

It takes Deadlock a moment to realize that Hot Rod is referring to the cannibalized remains of Gearshift. “He died in the crash,” Deadlock says simply. “I needed the parts to do repairs on the hull. He wasn’t using them.”

Hot Rod looks torn. His expression is still contorted into one of horror - and, granted, even Deadlock can confess that Gearshift’s remains are rather grotesque-looking to possibly anyone but the most grizzled of war veterans - but Deadlock knows his logic is reasonable. Hot Rod must as well, because he seems to accept the situation with a sigh.

“Are you going to bury him, at least?” Hot Rod asks. He swivels the chair to turn the corpse formerly known as Gearshift away from him.

“I can still get some use out of him,” Deadlock says. He nudges Hot Rod out of the way so he can resume his tinkering with the console. “He’s got fuel I can siphon.”

“What? No!” Hot Rod practically blanches at the thought.

Deadlock gives him a withering look. “This is the problem with you Autobots. You’re so up your own afts about your ‘morals’ even when it comes down to survival.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Hot Rod snaps. He glares, but it fails to look intimidating. If anything, he comes across as petulant, and Deadlock finds it more amusing than he probably should. “Whatever fuel he’s got left will have gone bad by now. Ratchet told me about it, it’s like-“

Deadlock’s mood sours. “Stop saying his name.”

“I’m making a point,” Hot Rod says. “Ratchet told me about how you shouldn’t siphon from someone who’s been dead longer than, I dunno - I think it was a few hours? Something about how the filtration systems shut down and everything starts to pollute the stores. From the whole, you know, being dead thing. If you’re lucky you’ll just get sick, but otherwise?”

He makes a slicing motion across his neck with a thumb. It’s stupidly dramatic. 

“I’m not an idiot,” Deadlock barks. His knowledge comes from experience, of course, rather than the wisdom of a concerned medic. “But when you’re on the brink of starvation you look me in the eye and tell me that you wouldn’t risk anything for fuel, because I’ve seen far stronger men than you reduced to worse.”

Hot Rod opens his mouth to argue but promptly shuts it again. With no rebuttal he seems to give up on any notion of helping - and it would be generous to call it even that - and instead trudges back to the passenger area of the shuttle.

Like a turbofox with his tail tucked, Deadlock thinks, and he laments how quickly Hot Rod’s fire was snuffed. 

**______________________________**

Trusting Deadlock goes against all logic.

Logic dictates that Deadlock will simply kill him if using the Matrix to power his shuttle doesn’t do the honors itself, that Deadlock’s reputation as an unhinged killer is entirely rooted in truth, that it’s inevitable Hot Rod will learn as much firsthand if he stays here, that it’s suicidal to do so with nothing more than Ratchet’s stories watching his back. 

In Hot Rod’s defense, he and logic have never really been on speaking terms. He’s always been more inclined to listen to his instincts - when it suits him, at least; less so when even instinct tells him that Deadlock is a wolf who needs no sheep’s clothing. 

But he’s already survived one suicide mission, and Hot Rod has always been one to push the boundaries instead of quitting while he’s ahead. Why not go for another?

“You’ve been at it all day,” Hot Rod comments when Deadlock finally retires from the cockpit. “Any progress?”

“Not much,” Deadlock says, for once sounding like the war-weary soldier that he surely must be. He takes his same spot on the opposing bench, only now he lies down and actually allows his optics a moment of rest. “I’ve never been good with tech. Wasn’t exactly what they recruited me for.”

Hot Rod tucks his knees in against his chest. The shuttle is drafty, and the cool air is made all the more potent by the lack of his energy reserves being funneled into heat production. The Matrix has been reduced to a dull presence in his chest, more of a constant ache than a searing pain. The glow of its center would be soothing, were it not a frequent reminder that his life depends on it. 

“How did you join up with them, anyways?” Hot Rod ventures to ask. 

Deadlock cracks open an optic. The color is more muted than it was before. “You asking for my life story?”

“Eh.” Hot Rod shrugs noncommittally. “Figured we could use some way to pass the time. Not like it should matter to you, anyways. Since you’re, you know, gonna kill me and all.”

“I guess it doesn’t,” Deadlock says. He chuckles, and it’s a surprisingly warm sound compared to the rasp of his voice. “You’re weird.”

“Takes one to know one,” Hot Rod says and no, it’s not the greatest comeback that he’s had.

Deadlock must be too exhausted to argue. He miraculously decides to humor Hot Rod, saying, “I was recruited by Megatron because I’m good at what I do.”

Megatron. A chill runs up Hot Rod’s spinal strut, and he knows he can’t blame it all on the lack of insulation. His intake constricts, and he needs a moment before the palpitations of his spark settle.

“He recruited you personally?”

“Mhm.” Deadlock closes his optics once more. His ventilations settle into a slow and steady rhythm that makes Hot Rod wonder if he’s started to power down. But he continues, his voice dipping into a low and lazy drawl. “Recognized me at one of his rallies. ‘Heard great things about me,’ he said. Gave me my name.”

Hot Rod tries to divert some more power to his thermoregulators, but an override keeps it flowing to his repair systems. He settles for curling himself into a tighter ball that he’s grateful Deadlock can’t see.

“Sounds kind of like you were one of his favorites,” Hot Rod says. “Bet that pissed Starscream off.”

“Oh you know it did,” Deadlock says, and he looks at peace as he likely recalls an incident or many where Starscream’s ego suffered for it. “He’d never admit it but he was always desperate for validation. It was painful to watch.”

“Almost makes me feel bad for him,” Hot Rod admits. The numbness of his fingers is a welcome distraction from how close the Seeker’s plight hits home. “But I guess he got his revenge, huh? Got to send you off to some backwater planet like this. Doubt Megatron would ever do that to one of his best guys.”

Deadlock tenses his jaw. “Starscream’s petty. It’s a good thing his sad excuse for leadership will fall apart without the Matrix.”

Hot Rod considers the coveted artifact that now resides in his chest. He’d have a greater appreciation for it if it would do something to combat the dropping temperature that Deadlock seems oblivious to. 

“What made you join up with the Autobots, anyways?” Deadlock asks. It’s an amicable enough attempt at conversation - certainly a step in the right direction - but Hot Rod still can’t help but notice how Deadlock manages to make his faction sound like something filthy. “Wanted to be a hero that bad?”

“It’s about more than that,” Hot Rod says. “Primus. You get so uppity about how the Decepticons are out here trying to save the world from itself or whatever and you don’t even consider that we might want to do the same?”

He’s expecting more threats and posturing for daring to speak out of line. To his surprise, Deadlock actually looks amused, and opens his optics to regard him with a smirk.

“Because you really look the part of a freedom fighter, don’t you,” Deadlock jibes.

Hot Rod realizes how ridiculous he must look, curled up as he is like some poor attempt at emulating some curious Earth creatures he’d come across. “It’s cold.”

Deadlock doesn’t look convinced. “You think _this_ is cold? You Autobots really are weak.”

“Oh my god it has nothing to do with faction, you jackoff,” Hot Rod says, exasperated. “My body’s busy trying to do that whole not dying thing and it doesn’t help that I’m used to running a little warm.”

“Oh,” Deadlock says, but in his defense he’s probably a lot less preoccupied by the gaping wound in Hot Rod’s chest than Hot Rod himself is. 

Hot Rod tries to tuck his hands in between his legs. Contorting himself as he is does little to help when his body is generating so little heat to begin with. “Sorry. Never been good with the cold. But you are also kind of an ass.”

“So I’ve been told,” Deadlock says. He doesn’t say anything else for a minute, just sits there and looks like he’s sizing Hot Rod up; maybe calculating the risk of offing Hot Rod versus the reward of no longer having a prisoner who talks back and insults him. 

He stands, and Hot Rod is either expecting him to go back to hiding in the cockpit before he can run his mouth even more, or retribution. To his surprise, Deadlock does neither. 

“I can’t look at you like this,” Deadlock says. He glowers, as if Hot Rod’s attempt at staving off the cold is an offensively pitiful sight - which, granted, it probably is. The cuffs certainly don’t do anything to help. “Up.”

“Why?” Hot Rod asks with no shortage of trepidation.

Deadlock looks at Hot Rod as if he were a kicked turbokit. “You said you were cold. Do you want help or not?”

“Help?” Hot Rod echoes. “Wait, you mean like - like you want to cuddle?”

_“Huddle,”_ Deadlock amends with an eye roll at the phrasing. “I’m talking about huddling for warmth. Do you want to or not?”

Hot Rod considers the proposal. He’s certainly not averse to the thought, given the circumstances, but it seems like an oddly generous offer from someone so prickly.

“If you’re sure,” Hot Rod says, untucking himself from his ball and standing up. “Why bother, though?”

“Gets you to stop complaining,” Deadlock says bluntly. He takes a seat on the bench and tugs Hot Rod down and into his lap.

Hot Rod lets out an undignified noise as he’s manhandled and maneuvered into the most comfortable position they can manage. “Spoiler! Watch the spoiler.”

“Quiet,” Deadlock rumbles in lieu of an apology, but to his credit he isn’t as rough with his handling as Hot Rod would have expected. He wraps his arms around Hot Rod’s midsection and pulls him in close, resting his head on his shoulder and twining their legs together. “There. This warm enough?”

“Yeah,” Hot Rod says. Deadlock is a warm presence at his back, and Deadlock’s grip helps to keep what little heat they do produce in tight. It’s an effective enough solution, all things considered, but Hot Rod’s processor still hiccups at the thought of being held so intimately by someone so dangerous. “Um. Thank you.”

“You’d be whining all night if I didn’t,” Deadlock mutters, yet despite his griping he doesn’t sound too bothered by the situation. 

He’s so close to Hot Rod’s audial, and Hot Rod is grateful Deadlock can’t see the way he flushes at the feeling of his breath against his cheek.

“We used to do this all the time in Nyon,” Hot Rod murmurs. “Me and a bunch of the others who didn’t have homes. Just found whatever shelter we could and recharged all bundled together. People always underestimate how cold it can get in Nyon.” 

“You were a street kid, huh,” Deadlock muses. His speech begins to slow and slur, and his head starts to feel heavier on Hot Rod’s shoulder. “Makes sense.”

“Bet Optimus Prime would be beside himself if he saw this.” Hot Rod can’t help but smile at the thought of someone so composed and revered having a conniption at the sight of one of his youngest recruits entwined with a notoriously violent Decepticon. 

Deadlock scoffs. “Like he’d be one to judge. Everyone knows he and Megatron have a history. Bet they got up to all sorts of nasty shit.”

“Ew, no, yeah, nope.” Hot Rod shuts his optics in a feeble attempt to blocking out the mental image of a younger Optimus Prime and Megatron engaging in some wildly kinky behavior. “Not something I ever wanted to think about.”

“You’re welcome,” Deadlock says, and Hot Rod could punch the smug bastard if he wasn’t in such a vulnerable position; or if he didn’t enjoy this weird, borderline friendly banter they’d managed to work up to. “Now shut up.”

He shouldn’t feel so comfortable in the arms of the enemy. Yet as Hot Rod feels the movements of Deadlock’s chest slow, he can’t help but think of home. 

**______________________________**

The night passes without incident. Deadlock doesn’t know whether he should be more amazed by the fact that he even let his guard down enough to recharge, or that Hot Rod didn’t take advantage and try to kill him. 

He supposes there’s something in that horrendously verbose Autobot Code that forbids against murdering someone in such a vulnerable position, or perhaps it’s simply Hot Rod’s own principles of conduct - those which seem to be characterized by a disproportionate amount of faith placed in others. 

Either way, Deadlock onlines to a warning about his waning fuel supply and a lap full of Hot Rod. It’s something that Deadlock would be happy to indulge in a little, were he not currently risking a forced shutdown, and regretfully the Autobot stirs as soon as he does.

Hot Rod stretches and gives his spoiler a few flaps against Deadlock’s chest to test the hinges. He grins, looking entirely too cozy in Deadlock’s grasp as he says, “Can’t believe I slept with a Decepticon.”

Deadlock’s array warms at the thought. He tries not to focus on the feeling of Hot Rod’s aft so close to it. 

“Dumbest thing you’ve done since stealing the Matrix,” Deadlock says. His frame feels leaden, and he can’t muster up the energy to untangle himself from Hot Rod. “You warm at least?”

“Mhm,” Hot Rod hums contentedly. “Thanks for that. Would’ve been a pretty miserable night otherwise. I’ve gotta say, this right here? Probably the best hostage experience I’ve had.”

Deadlock can’t help but smile. It never ceases to amaze him how Hot Rod manages to keep his spirits up even now, and there’s something infectious about his attitude. 

“You’re getting too comfortable.” Deadlock’s voice is muffled as he turns into the crook of Hot Rod’s neck. 

“And that’ll get me killed,” Hot Rod finishes. “Yeah. I get it by now. But uh, as far as I can tell you haven’t done it yet. And you won’t until you get what you need from me. So excuse me while I make myself as comfortable as I can in the meantime.”

He presses back against Deadlock’s chest. The brat either doesn’t know or doesn’t care that he’s treading a dangerous line.

“You sound exhausted,” Hot Rod says quietly. “How long have you been stuck out here, anyways?”

Deadlock grunts. Speech suddenly feels as arduous as keeping his optics open. His HUD is a constant stream of static and error messages.

“Hey.” Hot Rod nudges him with an elbow. “You good?”

“Gearshift,” Deadlock manages to say. “Get Gearshift.”

It takes Hot Rod a moment to process his request, and he’s indignant once he does. “No. I’m not letting you siphon from him.”

Deadlock’s grip around Hot Rod’s waist loosens. His body becomes nothing more than a deadweight as he funnels what little resources he has left into staying awake. 

He’s barely cognizant of a hand fumbling with the panel on his arm that covers his diagnostic and fuel ports. Hot Rod had probably asked him to open it before resorting to prying it open manually.

“What are you doing?” Deadlock asks. His awareness becomes limited to the sensation of Hot Rod’s hands.

“Keeping you alive,” Hot Rod says. 

There’s a click as something plugs into his fuel port. Deadlock’s firewalls have long since shut down to try and conserve power, leaving him with no choice but to accept the fuel transfer.

It takes a moment for Deadlock to be able to reboot his optics. When he does he’s able to confirm his suspicions. Hot Rod’s fueling tube is unspooled and now connects the two of them as energon flows from donor to recipient. 

“You’ll just wind up killing yourself,” Deadlock protests, but it’s all the fight he has left in him.

“The Matrix will keep me alive,” Hot Rod says simply. He rests his head back, likely too weak even now to hold himself up. “You need this more than I do.”

Arguing would be a waste of energy. Deadlock adjusts his grip, now that he has some sensation back in his limbs, and keeps Hot Rod close. 

“Why?” 

“Think of it as returning the favor,” Hot Rod says. “Repaying you, whatever makes it easiest for you to accept it.”

Deadlock isn’t convinced. “Why are you actually doing this?”

Hot Rod’s spoiler goes limp. The glow of the Matrix is the only sign of life from him until he manages to answer, “Because I’ve been there. Only reason I made it this far is because I had people watching my back. Now I’m doing the same for you.”

He goes quiet after that, leaving Deadlock to silently watch the Matrix and pray that its light never goes out. 

Before he drifts off himself he undoes the cuffs that were bound to Hot Rod’s wrists and ankles. The chains clatter against the floor as they fall, the sound deafeningly loud in the absence of Hot Rod’s chatter. 

**______________________________**

“It’s done,” Deadlock announces, and he does so with a swell of pride as the console validates his efforts by coming alive with a series of flashes and beeps. The navigation system comes online, showing a sequence of coordinates and calibrations. 

It was the same set of numbers that had gotten him trapped here. Then again, this planet seemed to be the embodiment of uncontrollable variability. Perhaps getting struck down by the minefield of debris in its atmosphere was inevitable.

“You actually did it,” Hot Rod says, awestruck, and Deadlock would have been annoyed by his lack of faith if he wasn’t so elated by this accomplishment. 

Hot Rod reaches up to wipe some coolant from Deadlock’s brow. It’s only then that he really notices how small Hot Rod is, despite the grandiosity of his personality.

“Now’s your last chance to do the smart thing and run,” Deadlock says. Hot Rod still looks feeble in the aftermath of their fuel siphon, and Deadlock marvels over how easy it would be to break him if he so desired. 

“I wouldn’t last out there. You and I both know that,” Hot Rod says, his gaze resolute as it matches Deadlock’s. “I’d rather take my chances with you, remember?”

Deadlock is ashamed to be the one to back down. He looks out the window, noting that the rain has finally let up. It seems almost as if it’s heralding their successful departure. 

“I’ll never get why,” Deadlock says.

“Still banking on my charms.” Hot Rod says it as if he’s trying to pass it off as a joke, but his optics betray the sincerity of the remark. “You don’t have to go back to the Decepticons. We could just make a break for it, join up with the Autobots. Ratchet would like that. _I_ would like that.”

“That’s ambitious of you. What happened to just getting me to let you go?”

Hot Rod scratches his nose. “I like to aim high. Can’t really help it.”

“And what happens if your plan doesn’t work out?” Deadlock asks, more for the sake of staying on task himself than anything. “You get thrown in a prison camp somewhere or trapped in a lab and turned into Shockwave’s newest project. All because you had a little too much misplaced faith.”

“Maybe so,” Hot Rod says, “but they’ll get me out. The Autobots will. We look after each other. Can you say the same about your guys?”

There was a time when Deadlock would have felt confident saying yes, during those bygone days of brotherhood lived out beneath the raised banner of equality. Now he simply goes quiet.

“Ratchet told me about all the potential he saw in you,” Hot Rod continues, as opposed to dwelling on the matter of Deadlock’s lack of confidence in his men. “Said he really thought you’d go on to do great things, make a real life for yourself. This isn’t it, Deadlock. But you’ve still got time to do better.”

Hot Rod backs away before Deadlock can speak to the contrary.

“It’s a nice night out,” Hot Rod remarks. The sky is remarkably clear for the first time, giving them an unobstructed view of the stars. “Why don’t we enjoy it?”

There’s an unspoken understanding between them that Hot Rod very well might not survive tomorrow, let alone whatever happens after. Deadlock knows it would be needlessly cruel to deny him that last request.

**______________________________**

“There!” Hot Rod exclaims. His spoiler flutters with unabashed glee as he sits up and points emphatically at something in the sky. “You see it? It’s that really bright one, the uh…” He snaps his fingers as he scrambles for the name. “Uh, the guiding one, you know.”

“Polaris,” Deadlock says, and he can’t help but smile not only at Hot Rod’s eagerness, but also the way the familiarity of the name stirs up a pleasant warmth in his chest. 

“Yeah!” Hot Rod’s spoiler is as animated as his speech. “Polaris,” he repeats wistfully, and there’s something so pure about the awe that leaves his gaze as bright as the freckled night sky. “Always felt like I could count on seeing that one.”

“Back in Nyon?” Deadlock asks.

Hot Rod nods. He still hasn’t pried his optics away from Polaris as he says, “We spent most of our nights outside. Weather sucked a lot of the time. Always had to worry about someone taking your stuff, too, if you had any. But, honestly? Cheesy as it is, at least we had the view.”

“The Dead End was the same,” Deadlock says before he can realize that he just volunteered personal information.

That manages to fully grab Hot Rod’s attention, much to Deadlock’s dismay. Hot Rod turns so he’s facing him and leans in, and while Deadlock is expecting a smug grin and a self-congratulatory speech at having finally gotten somewhere, Hot Rod just looks at him with the same wonder that he had shown the stars. 

“So that’s where you’re from,” Hot Rod muses. His excitement at the revelation is short-lived. His spoiler settles at the sobering thought, and his tone shifts to something appropriately solemn. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense.”

It’s something Deadlock has heard plenty of times before: whispers along the corridors of the _Nemesis_ that seem to live in the walls of the vessel itself, a constant, unwelcome reminder of the roots he can never escape from; crude comments in the mess hall that set his line of work apart from the honorable labor of the miners who toiled in a different kind of dark; leers from across the battlefield that fester under his plating long after the filth and viscera of war have been scrubbed away.

He can only expect the same from Hot Rod. He wonders why now of all times he finds himself let down. 

“You said the Decepticons were supposed to be about equality, right?” Hot Rod says. He regards Deadlock not with judgment, much to his surprise, and not with the pity he’d once received from those whose sympathies extended far enough to look at him but not to challenge the privileges they held. There’s a melancholy in his gaze, one that seems rooted in something personal. “Makes sense that you’d want to join up with them. You always hear about the blacksmiths and the construction workers, y’know, the working class sort of guys who never even had the choice to work in a cushy office or a lab.”

His fingers are as restless as always. He traces little loops and spirals in the hull as he talks; always craving the sense of security he seems to find in motion.

“But there are a lot of people like you, I think,” he says. “Who didn’t even have that much. People who didn’t even get the dignity of being looked at as someone who mattered. No wonder you’d want to join up with them.”

Deadlock doesn’t know what to say. It’s possibly the most charitable interpretation of his motives he’s ever gotten, even from within his own faction.

Hot Rod fidgets in the silence. He glances down, his gaze tracking the wandering of his finger. “They tried to recruit me a long time ago. Fresh off the streets of Nyon. And, to be totally honest with you? If things were different, I probably would have done it. I don’t regret saying no - they had a terrible way of going about it, I gotta say. But had I gone to those rallies in the early days and listened to the speeches and all that, well.”

He lies back down, his attention finding its way back to Polaris. “We might’ve been fighting alongside each other. Wonder if we would’ve gotten along.”

“Probably not,” Deadlock says bluntly, and he can easily picture the way quarrels between them would escalate into something ugly in the hostile environment of the Decepticon ranks.

“Ouch,” Hot Rod says with a good-natured laugh. 

“I like the Autobot you,” Deadlock says. 

Once again he’s amazed by how loose his tongue has suddenly become in the presence of Hot Rod. It’s easier to blame it on the lack of fuel and recharge than to analyze the warmth that’s been brewing in his chest. But despite his reservations he soldiers on, never one to back down from what he started; and knowing that Hot Rod would pester him for answers anyways. 

“You’re annoying as hell,” Deadlock continues, and the remark is belied by his slight smile, “but you’ve got a good heart. Being a Decepticon would’ve taken that from you. When life has always kicked you while you’re down you don’t have that same goody-goody outlook on things. And the soft ones either don’t make it or they quickly learn to let go of that part of themselves. It wouldn’t be right, seeing you like that.”

Hot Rod looks up at him with wide optics. His lips are slightly parted, the rise and fall of his chest a gentle and soothing rhythm that could lull Deadlock into a state of calm that he’s always pursued, but has never gotten the chance to know. 

They’re close. Deadlock’s knee brushes against Hot Rod’s thigh, and it’s only then that he notices just how warm the Autobot’s frame is. 

It would be so easy to lean down, to stake the claim that the possessive side of him has been yearning for since a time he can’t pinpoint in that moment. He could ruin Hot Rod, could sully the vessel of their gods with something as sinful as carnal desires. He could teach Hot Rod the meaning of pleasure, could make it so that his name is the one that Hot Rod cries out in ecstasy like some blasphemous prayer. 

His hand fists against the hull. He turns away, and selfishly hopes that he’s not misinterpreting Hot Rod’s reaction as disappointment. 

Deadlock clears his intake. His posture is rigid as he looks upward and away from the sight of Hot Rod so vulnerable and pliant beneath him. 

“Look.” He points to the left of Polaris, drawing a straight line to a pair of stars. “Right there. You can see Dubhe and Merak.”

“Huh.” Hot Rod crosses and uncrosses his ankles as he follows Deadlock’s line of sight. “Hey, how do you know so much about the stars, anyways?”

Deadlock can recall it having been a night like this one. They’d been on an excursion through the outskirts of the Acid Wastes, en route to Stanix to raid an Autobot base that had been unearthed thanks to Soundwave’s extensive surveillance network.

Morale had been high. The gains they’d made in Vaporex turned what normally would have been a solemn military affair into something of a victory celebration. 

Megatron himself hadn’t been immune to the air of revelry. Overcharged one night and oddly amicable, he’d taken Deadlock aside to view the only sight in the Acid Wastes that could perhaps hold a candle to the sunsets. 

“It was Megatron who taught me,” Deadlock says softly. Nostalgia has him yearning for a time when he’d had the privilege of knowing Megatron not just as a leader or revolutionary, but as a person. It was one that not many shared, and he took pride in it.

“What? No way!” Hot Rod looks at Deadlock as if he’s expecting some sort of punchline. “You’re not serious - wait, are you? You’re not messing with me?”

“There’s a lot about Megatron that you don’t know,” Deadlock says - testily, he’ll admit, but he has always been quick to pull the trigger in defense of those to whom he is indebted.

“I guess,” Hot Rod says, giving the back of his head a sheepish rub. “But astronomy, huh. You know, I just can’t see Megatron of all people sitting out here and like, waxing all poetic about the stars.”

Deadlock grins as he remembers a particular piece that was made in tribute to the ethereal beauty of the infinite cosmos, and how they are perhaps the one constant that unites them as a people. “Actually…”

Hot Rod looks as if Primus himself has deigned to tell him the secrets of the universe and everything that dwells within it. 

**______________________________**

Deadlock has stopped counting the days since he’s been trapped here. Not out of apathy or a sense of hopelessness, but because Hot Rod has a way of making time feel obsolete. Minutes and hours blend seamlessly together in his company, and Deadlock is afraid to think about inevitably losing it. 

He doesn’t say as much as he’s hooking up the cables that run from the engine’s power supply to the Matrix. He works in silence, the atmosphere somber despite the cause for celebration that is his impending freedom. 

Hot Rod must know the luxury likely won’t extend to him. He’s oddly quiet, even as Deadlock works so close to his spark and the one thing keeping it going. 

It’s necessary, Deadlock reminds himself, but trying to rationalize things fails to make his hands more steady or his will more resolute. 

That Autobot sentimentality and weakness has gotten to him. He doesn’t have the energy to be upset about it. 

“How are you feeling?” Deadlock brings himself to ask. It’s a dumb question, as hollow as any platitudes he could offer, but leaving it unsaid feels immensely wrong. 

“Nervous,” Hot Rod admits. His optics are closed, as if he can will the reality of their situation out of existence. “But, well, I guess I’ve already cheated death once, right? Maybe I’ll go two for two.”

“You’re not dying,” Deadlock snaps, more to comfort himself than anything. “Stop assuming the worst. It’s not like you.”

“Guess you got a point there,” Hot Rod concedes. “Sorry. Guess having this second chance at life and all has got me thinking that I’d rather not lose it.”

“You won’t,” Deadlock insists. “If this damn thing tries to take you down I’ll rip it out of your chest myself.”

Hot Rod manages a laugh, weak as it is. Deadlock isn’t nearly as amused.

“What?”

“Looks like I won you over after all, huh?” Hot Rod says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his optics. “I’m glad. Just wish it could’ve been under different circumstances.”

The world never has been so kind, Deadlock thinks, and Hot Rod of all people should know that. 

“All set,” Deadlock says as he finishes with the last of the cables. The Matrix is completely oblivious to their plight, its color never changing from that brilliant shade of blue. He allows his hand to linger on Hot Rod’s plating for a moment longer before forcing himself to pull away and start preparations for takeoff. 

Hot Rod opens his mouth - perhaps to mourn the loss of contact, perhaps to plea for another way that they don’t have - but says nothing.

Deadlock sits in the pilot’s seat and takes the controls in hand. His grip wavers as he boots up the navigation system and performs those last few diagnostics. 

“I trust you,” Hot Rod says, just as Deadlock’s finger hovers over the ignition. 

“We’re getting you home,” is Deadlock’s reply, and he knows that come hell or high water he’ll stop at nothing to fulfill that promise.

**______________________________**

Hot Rod feels as if he’s come full circle.

The engines coming online is like the impact of Megatron’s fusion cannon. The Matrix, which has been mostly quiescent this far as nothing more than a glorified life support machine, suddenly comes to life and unleashes the full potential it contains. Hot Rod has an agonizing moment where whatever energy the Matrix has lent him is forcefully stolen and rerouted to powering the shuttle. 

His ability to parse what is truth and what is nothing more than a figment of his fractured mind fades as he once again finds himself on that precipice between life and whatever lies beyond, if anything even does. 

The Matrix has gone quiet, but in its place he can still catch bits and pieces of another voice calling to him, one that spits as many curses as it makes desperate calls to a higher power that it isn’t sure it even believes in.

Hot Rod’s never heard Deadlock sound so afraid. He hates being the one to put him in such a position.

Something rips at his chest. The Matrix sings a swan song for him as it grows distant, and Hot Rod longs to reach out for it and cling to his last vestige of hope for making it out and righting his wrongs. 

A hand clasps his own, and for whatever reason he feels inclined to believe the promises that come with it. 

**______________________________**

He comes back online with a start.

Hot Rod’s optics take time to recalibrate after having been deprived of stimuli for an indiscernible amount of time. The overhead lights are as harsh as he can recall them being, but the hum of the engine and the occasional jostle of the vessel as it navigates around debris and other hazards is unfamiliar. 

They’re moving, Hot Rod realizes, and he slowly works himself into a seated position so he can look out the window and confirm his suspicions. 

The unending black of space is all around them, but it feels so much less desolate than before. 

Hot Rod stands, wincing as the movement causes an acute pain to ring in his chest. Only then does it strike him that the cause is not the Matrix, nor is it the wound that the Matrix had once occupied. His spark casing is exposed, and though he feels uncomfortably bare he does not take for granted the fact that it managed to somehow survive two brushes with death.

He makes his way towards the cockpit. His gait is clumsy and his steps heavy as his gyros struggle to regain their function. It comes as no surprise then that Deadlock hears him coming, and after switching the system over to autopilot Deadlock is quick to meet him halfway.

Hot Rod isn’t expecting to be greeted with an embrace. Then again, Deadlock has a talent for defying expectations.

“Hey,” Hot Rod says. His voice is more of a croak than anything. “What’d I miss?”

“Idiot,” Deadlock says. He holds Hot Rod in what feels like a vice grip. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry. Promise I won’t do it again.”

Deadlock pulls away just enough so that he can look Hot Rod in the eye. “Good. I’ll kill you if you do.”

Hot Rod knows better than to argue with that logic.

“Guess you really weren’t kidding about ripping this thing out of my chest,” Hot Rod remarks as he notices the Matrix, in all its glory, still hooked up to the power supply. Primus would surely be appalled by such a sight. “How’d I survive, anyways?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Deadlock says tersely. He scratches at the plating on his own chest. “But no more pulling stunts like this. Sooner or later your luck is gonna run out and you won’t have me or the Matrix there to save you.”

“Wasn’t really planning on it,” Hot Rod says. “Think I’ve had my fill of suicide missions for a while. Maybe I’ll just settle for being an obedient little cadet from now on.”

“That’s a load of bull,” Deadlock says, but it still manages to get a hint of a smile out of him. 

Hot Rod grins. “Yeah. I’ll never be the Autobot Optimus wants me to be. But, you know what? I’ve accepted that.”

Deadlock cups Hot Rod’s cheek. “You’re better than the rest of them,” he murmurs.

Hot Rod’s face warms beneath Deadlock’s touch. He leans into it, marveling at how hands that are so adept at acts of violence can be so gentle. 

“You give me too much credit,” Hot Rod says, suddenly feeling sheepish beneath the praise. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. More than anyone probably has a right to. But, this? This definitely isn’t one of them.”

Deadlock looks to be at a loss for words. Hot Rod knows he has a habit of fumbling his own, particularly in moments like this where all the carefully crafted defense mechanisms are stripped away, leaving him as vulnerable and honest as his bare spark. 

So he decides to speak in a language far less complex, pressing his lips to Deadlock’s own in a message that rings loud and clear.

**______________________________**

“You could still come with me,” Hot Rod says. He’s nestled in the safety of Deadlock’s lap, watching as stars and planets alike guide their safe passage towards Earth. “I mean it. I’d have your back. So would Ratchet. You could join us.”

Deadlock hums a note of disapproval against Hot Rod’s intake. “You know I can’t. I’ve got my cause, you’ve got yours. You know we’re both too stubborn to give either one up.”

“Yeah,” Hot Rod concedes with a sigh. “Yeah, I know. Still doesn’t mean I can’t try to convince you.”

“You’re wasting your breath,” Deadlock says, but his grip tightens in a way that almost makes Hot Rod think this isn’t as hopeless a battle as Deadlock seems to think. 

Hot Rod takes a moment to quietly enjoy being cuddled by Deadlock. Ironic that the place he feels safest is in the arms of someone his closest confidants would deem a dangerous enemy. 

“We’ve still got a ways to go before we reach Earth,” Hot Rod says. “I won’t give up until we have.”

“Brat,” Deadlock says, but he manages to make it sound like a term of endearment more than anything. Hot Rod is as impressed as he is flattered. “Put that energy into surviving. Make it out of this war alive and I’m coming back for you so we can do this whole thing right..”

Hot Rod finally allows his optics to rest. His awareness is then limited to just the rhythm of Deadlock’s ventilations and the weight of his arms against him. “Promise?”

“Promise.”


End file.
